Anthony J. Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellbentley) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wildestlands2021-11-22 08:49 pm
hellbentley) wrote in wildestlands2021-11-22 08:49 pm
Entry tags:
Is smoked meat supposed to be spicy?
[cw: coughing up a little blood.]
[Crowley is not a big eater. He'll drink like a fish, but food, well, for the most part it's just not one of his preferred guilty human pleasures. Occasionally he'll indulge in an expresso (black as his soul, if he had one), or something dark and rich and bitter like a dark chocolate tart, but only ever rarely.]
[Aziraphale is the one that thoroughly enjoys eating and Crowley usually prefers to just watch him enjoy himself.]
[Sleep, on the other hand? Sleep is amazing. He's slept a whole century before just for the simple pleasure of it.]
[So right now he's hanging out near the woods - it stings to be so close to the Heartstone - his mirror expanded. He's looking at a bit of smoked jerky he's been handed in a little paper wrap, grimacing slightly at how unappetizing it looks.]
Far be it for me to insist on five star dining in the great big useless bloody wilderness, but do we at least have something else to go along with this? I'm...a bit of a picky eater.
[It's believable. He's a very slim, leggy man, someone that looks like he may indeed be very picky about his food.]
Like...fruit? Don't eat much fruit, but I've heard good things. I've known a few people who just couldn't say no to fruit.
[His little joke. He tosses a small bit of the jerky in his mouth, just a little bite. It's not on his fingers long enough to sting. He barely chews it or this might have gone down better, might have let him spit it out with just a burned tongue before absolute disaster. He could've just played it off as being disgusted.]
[Dean had helped Kon brine at least some of the meat with his already-purified holy water. That meat had been smoked into some of the jerky, and even though the water evaporated off, it consecrated the salt left behind. Normal salt never hurt him, but blessed salt on the other hand...]
[Maybe it's not as potent as pure holy water or he'd have burned up from the inside almost instantly, but it's bad.]
So did anyone happen to find any - [He suddenly gags. Then bows over as he chokes.]
[It's not normal choking because he shouldn't have been able to get any words out at all at first.]
[It's not normal choking because most of the time when people choke from a bit of food they don't start coughing up blood. His teeth are instantly stained from it.]
[It's not normal choking because most of the time when people choke they don't start smoking from the mouth.]
[He wheezes like someone going into anaphylaxis, and falls to his knees so sudden and hard that his glasses become slightly loose. He coughs so hard they fall right off.]
[Finally, after a few hard wheezes she manages to cough it up, with a mouthful of blood. His voice is locked into a wheeze and he keeps having to cough and spit little gobs of blood. It's not as bad as the initial bit of it - mostly superficial blood vessels in his throat burst.]
Who made this? What did you put in it? What did you do?
[It's only then that he's able to notice what just happened. That the world is suddenly less dim. He holds a hand to his temple and realizes his eyes are visible - yellow and snakelike. And he starts looking for his glasses in the shadowy grass. His vision is still recovering from the darkness that crept in from the edges as he went without oxygen.]
Ahhh...
[He segues into a lie.]
...How embarrassing. Everyone now knows about my horrific eye condition and deadly food allergy. All connected, I'm afraid. Immune disorder.
[He is so fucked.]
[Crowley is not a big eater. He'll drink like a fish, but food, well, for the most part it's just not one of his preferred guilty human pleasures. Occasionally he'll indulge in an expresso (black as his soul, if he had one), or something dark and rich and bitter like a dark chocolate tart, but only ever rarely.]
[Aziraphale is the one that thoroughly enjoys eating and Crowley usually prefers to just watch him enjoy himself.]
[Sleep, on the other hand? Sleep is amazing. He's slept a whole century before just for the simple pleasure of it.]
[So right now he's hanging out near the woods - it stings to be so close to the Heartstone - his mirror expanded. He's looking at a bit of smoked jerky he's been handed in a little paper wrap, grimacing slightly at how unappetizing it looks.]
Far be it for me to insist on five star dining in the great big useless bloody wilderness, but do we at least have something else to go along with this? I'm...a bit of a picky eater.
[It's believable. He's a very slim, leggy man, someone that looks like he may indeed be very picky about his food.]
Like...fruit? Don't eat much fruit, but I've heard good things. I've known a few people who just couldn't say no to fruit.
[His little joke. He tosses a small bit of the jerky in his mouth, just a little bite. It's not on his fingers long enough to sting. He barely chews it or this might have gone down better, might have let him spit it out with just a burned tongue before absolute disaster. He could've just played it off as being disgusted.]
[Dean had helped Kon brine at least some of the meat with his already-purified holy water. That meat had been smoked into some of the jerky, and even though the water evaporated off, it consecrated the salt left behind. Normal salt never hurt him, but blessed salt on the other hand...]
[Maybe it's not as potent as pure holy water or he'd have burned up from the inside almost instantly, but it's bad.]
So did anyone happen to find any - [He suddenly gags. Then bows over as he chokes.]
[It's not normal choking because he shouldn't have been able to get any words out at all at first.]
[It's not normal choking because most of the time when people choke from a bit of food they don't start coughing up blood. His teeth are instantly stained from it.]
[It's not normal choking because most of the time when people choke they don't start smoking from the mouth.]
[He wheezes like someone going into anaphylaxis, and falls to his knees so sudden and hard that his glasses become slightly loose. He coughs so hard they fall right off.]
[Finally, after a few hard wheezes she manages to cough it up, with a mouthful of blood. His voice is locked into a wheeze and he keeps having to cough and spit little gobs of blood. It's not as bad as the initial bit of it - mostly superficial blood vessels in his throat burst.]
Who made this? What did you put in it? What did you do?
[It's only then that he's able to notice what just happened. That the world is suddenly less dim. He holds a hand to his temple and realizes his eyes are visible - yellow and snakelike. And he starts looking for his glasses in the shadowy grass. His vision is still recovering from the darkness that crept in from the edges as he went without oxygen.]
Ahhh...
[He segues into a lie.]
...How embarrassing. Everyone now knows about my horrific eye condition and deadly food allergy. All connected, I'm afraid. Immune disorder.
[He is so fucked.]
action
[ An awfully casual introduction for Guts, who is sheathing the dagger he'd been cleaning from carving some more meat.
He sure is reaching for the handle of his enormous sword.]
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[While he was coughing, apparently he'd been snuck up on by a very, very large man, with the largest sword he's ever seen.]
[He starts to scramble away, but can't seem to make it off the ground. He still feels weak like he's been punched in the solar plexus.]
What brand is that exactly? If it's an old injury, those tend to be numb. Scar tissue and all that. And if there are any odd twinges, I'm sure that's purely medical - maybe you should go get it looked at, plenty of healers around I've been told.
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[ Yep, he’s drawing the humongous sword now, and the pointy end is being held right at chest level. That sure is an awfully cold look in his eye.]
You gonna show me your real form? Or am I gonna force it out?
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[He keeps scrambling back.]
Look, look, you're making a mistake. I don't have any other form.
[He absolutely has another form. It's not a form he particularly likes. It definitely is uglier and more gruesome. Sometimes when he changes back into it he gets scared he'll forget how to turn human again.]
[He likes being human - and he usually tries harder at his human form than the human forms of the other demons, who rely on their powers to escape attention. He has a face - he loves faces, so much more expressive. Fantastic number of legs, not too many or too few.]
[But he's never been able to change the eyes. Normally he's got magic to cover it up if the glasses are off.]
[Right now he can tell the only other form he change into is something small and even more defenseless.]
[He backs all the way into a fallen tree. Holds out a hand placatingly.]
I don't know where or when you're from, but there's all kinds of reasons for yellow eyes and various...twinges. How do you know I'm exactly like whatever you think I am?
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[ that groveling stirs an ugly feeling in him, something wretched and hateful. Every apostle he’s slaughtered up until this point at least had the gall to put up a fight. A great fit of violence that beat and battered his body before he finally cut them down. A bloodletting to satisfy the vengeful thing inside him.
This? This was just insulting. His mouth begins to twist, teeth clenched in an animalistic furor building in him.
He presses the point of the sword against him. The Dragonslayer wasn’t holy at all, but the heap of metal had been tempered with enough demon blood to be quite good at cutting one through just the same. ]
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Someone did.
From there it was a case of moving as quickly as possible, pulling his hunting knife from where it's strapped to his ankle. It's been blessed within the last month, so it'll have some extra sting to-- whatever that thing is.
When he get to the scene, he's glad to see someone already confronting it. That didn't prepare him for the eyes.
Yellow eyes.
Dean didn't see the man himself but Dad's described it to him enough times, sober and drunk, that the image has become burned into his brain. A man with yellow eyes, standing over Sammy's crib. Mom on the ceiling.
He smells smoke in the air. It feels like it's choking him.
With a shout, Dean lunges at the thing, ignoring the giant fucking sword. He gets on pins it own with his body and holds his knife to its throat.]
What are you.
[It's not a question, it's a demand. His voice is a low snarl. There is no expression on his face but burning hatred.]
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I haven't done anything.
[He knows it's a hard sell. It seems like these two maybe have demons in their world and if that's the case, they're probably the same as demons anywhere.]
[Absolutely awful.]
[How does he explain? How does he explain without ripping himself open raw in a way he'd rather die than do in front of strangers? He can't tell them the truth, it'd be too much agony to say.]
[I never meant to fall.]
[And he'd never wanted to be a demon. It's why he'd worked so damn hard to not actually work at it, only causing minor goading annoyances he could sell as bringing people one inch closer to damnation when humans generally made up their own minds about who they wanted to be, good or evil.]
[It's not fair that now, when he's completely free of hell's agenda, that he's possibly about to die.]
And I'm not going to hurt anyone. [At this distance, he could try, he could try to use the power over hellfire this world had given him, but he barely has control over it. If he accidentally incinerates these two before stopping it, it's over. Two humans dead pointlessly - an absolute waste of life - and the rest of the group coming after him in a mob.]
I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to survive all this, throw in to help where I can, and go home. That's all.
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[ He snarls the words at Dean. He can feel the cursed armor on him beginning to wake, the cloak behind him swaying unnaturally. Guts remembers - uneasily - to keep the ugly thing in him tamped down.
He calms himself with a few breaths, grip tightened around his sword. ]
That thing is scum that snacks on humans like you for its own amusement. It’s a demon.
If you don’t wanna die, then step aside.
[ Did he have it in him to cut both of them down? No. He wasn’t like that anymore. But some violent part of him considered it. ]
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Like hell.
[He ain't gonna move, no matter how stupidly big He-Man's sword is. He presses his knife closer against the thing's throat.]
Alright, you yellow-eyed bastard. Give me one good reason I don't send your rotten ass back to Hell right here and now.
[It's not that the begging's getting to him, it's definitely that he wants to draw it out. It's not disturbingly sincere, it's pathetic and laughable. If Dean keeps telling himself that, maybe it'll sink in.
His body is trembling, but his hand is steady. There's the sound of a roaring fire in his head.]
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[So he goes for glib candor.]
Well, for one, they fired me. Didn't even let me empty out my desk.
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But there's a big guy with a sword who seems to be getting impatient, so Dean's run out of time.]
This is for Mom, you son of a bitch. [Dean whispers, then he begins to chant.]
Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te...
[His voice is steady. He's known this exorcism by heart since he was twelve. The one he spent painful hours reading over and over, his Dad a looming presence in the room, waiting for him to fuck up. Latin's never been his strong suite-- hell, reading's never been his strong suite, but Dad pushed him hard until his eyes couldn't focus and his head felt like it was going to explode.]
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[And the exorcism is working, despite the differences in worlds. Extreme intent to destroy a demon + fluency in Latin + holy words always goes a long way. Sure, demons can survive getting discorporated and then reform their physical forms, but they're so much more exposed if the form they're hiding in is just...them. It's why demons can so easily be destroyed with holy water - there is nothing there to drive them out of and no human meat to shield them. ]
[The exorcism isn't going to send him back to hell, it's just going to rip him apart - body and immaterial form, the same way holy water would utterly destroy everything he is.]
[And he can feel it.]
No! Nononono!
[Hellfire briefly flares in his hands, one last instinctual, desperate attempt to protect himself - consequences be damned - but the incantation makes him feel like he's being run over by a truck. Repeatedly. The spark he needs for the fire fails and it goes out.]
[He thrashes hard enough that the knife nicks his neck - not enough to slice anything serious open, but enough to make blood stream down his collar. He grits teeth still bloody from his raw throat. This feels infinitely worse than accidentally eating the consecrated salt, like the burning pain is snaking through his entire body instead of just down his throat.]
[The effect of the spell is unique due to what he is. Some of his natural form breaks through, forced by the spell digging into his very nature. His teeth suddenly sharpen into fangs and scaly skin ripples out over his face, hands, and neck. It's a deep blood-red at his throat.]
[The fact he's something more powerful and divine than the smoke-like demons of Dean's world at least helps him stay alive longer. The spell can still kill him because nothing can shield his real self but is made for beings that are weaker, have a more tenuous hold on reality. He may be destroyed by it completely, but it'll take more time.]
[He can't save himself. There's only one thing he can do:]
[Trust in a promise.].
Aziph - Azirph -
[He can barely croak his best friend's name out, utterly fails at first, but finally a loud enough scream rips out of him. So loud that even if Aziraphale's mirror isn't on him or is muffled because he's not looking at it and has it buried in his clothes, he'll still hear the scream from all the way across the meadow.]
AZIRAPHALE!
[The scream is raw with anguish. His voice is hoarse, agonized, and even more terrified than when Satan himself was about to rise up out of the ground under their feet.]
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He watches, sword lowered and held to the side, still poised for an incoming attack that was evidently becoming less and less likely. The demon's more monstrous form begins to surge beneath his skin, the scales and discoloration bringing out a vicious look in the swordsman. So he was right, then. It was one of them. He becomes sharply aware of the pain and the steady stream of blood from the brand in reaction to the thing in front of him.
The creature attempts to defend himself and fails, floundering miserably. There would be no fight. No explosion of violence ending in a quick, bloody death. This one would just slowly smoulder itself to death, burning inside out, crying out in pain.
Guts would almost feel sorry for him, were he anything else but the most wretched type of monster he knew. ]
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He flinches when the demon's hands catch fire, he can feel his skin briefly blistering from the flames, but he doesn't let himself stop. He concentrates on remembering the right words to help suppress the vision of a blonde woman in a nightgown being pinned to the ceiling by an invisible force, bleeding from her abdomen before she bursts into flames.
Tears sting his eyes from the memory and the brutal act he's committing. But this is what he's been trained to do his entire life, this is the one duty he has left that he can fulfill. A part of him relishes the violence and pain, both that he is giving and receiving.]
Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare... Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis...
[The demon cries out a name: Aziraphale. Dean doesn't recognize it, but it's said with such faith and desperation it makes him wonder: is this what demons pray to?]
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It's a while later, after everything has settled down, that some handwriting pops up on the mirror.]
Did you ever get around to meeting the Easter Bunny? He might be able to help you find some fruit.
[ the angel of staying in his own lane ]
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Safe to say, hearing his name like that trends towards the latter. Aziraphale has never moved so fast. Needless to say, the tableau that he finds waiting is equally nightmarish. Just on par with one of his deepest fears. No big deal.
The weapons immediately become negligible in his personal risk assessment equation. He tries to physically insert himself between Crowley and the others as best he can, to get a firm hand on one of Dean's shoulders and pull him back. It's not a violent gesture, but it is insistent. ]
That's quite enough!
[ Absolutely frantic, distinctly authoritative: cool ways for beings older than time itself to sound. If he can create enough space to start reasoning with these young men or for a possible escape--
Not that he's going anywhere himself. Not without Crowley, certainly. ]
Unhand him this instant.
[ Aziraphale has never been especially given to anger. Doesn't quite take, he's found, is always very easily tempered. This is just about the closest he's ever gotten. More than that, of course, he's very disappointed. ]
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[His nose is bleeding now.]
[Crowley looks at Aziraphale and the desperation is fading.]
[There's only the faith.]
[He finally sees his sunglasses in the grass and reaches a shaking hand to grab them. He wipes away the tears that were streaking from the corners of his eyes. He puts the glasses on; a shield against the world now that he can't just magically slide under the radar.]
[He tries to sit up and can't. The best he can do is curl on his side, looking up at the confrontation.]
[There are many things he could do or say right now. He could attack them with fire. He could be angry at them for hurting him. He could try to reason with them. He could throw all dignity away and outright plead for his life.]
[Instead he look up at Dean and says hoarsely:]
I'm going to assume you're the one that put something consecrated into the food.
[He sure came running and seemed to not be shocked by the situation.]
All this? Bit of an overreaction to someone not liking your cooking.
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Were Aziraphale someone he trusted barging in between them, he would be more willing to stand down. As it was, all these interruptions were starting to piss him off. They were all strangers here, and the pain of what demons like him caused was a wound that would never really leave him. The death, the loss, the endless nights being tormented and driven to near insanity. It was still vivid. It still lit fire in every ounce of his body. With the way he was gripping that weapon, he very much still yearned to give in and bisect him on the spot.
The fact that he held back at all was a testament to what time and slow healing had given him. A small amount of patience, rather than none at all. ]
The last time I bumped into a slithering bastard like him, a town was sacked and the corpses dragged out to feast on the blood. There a reason you want to spare him?
[ Guts has never been given any reason to show mercy to them. Even he had his limits. ]
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He's a fucking demon. Why the hell should I stop?
[Even if this isn't the bastard that killed his mom, all demons are evil sons of bitches. This fucking dandy-looking asshole better have a good reason for interrupting.]
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Zealots to one end, Crowley's brand of contribution on the other. This is fine. ]
Because as fulfilling as I'm sure it is to weaken and murder someone from another world based on preconceived notions without seeing if they've anyone here who can speak for them, I'm here nonetheless. And not holding the invention of murder or the British Museum against you, I might add.
[ Being offended on Crowley's behalf is very easy, actually. Beyond everything, he certainly is that. ]
Lucky thing, too. Because he's never done anything so terrible as that and he wouldn't ever do anything so terrible as all that. So all you'd really be doing is killing a kind and decent fellow outright.
[ To make an argument omelette, one must at times crack open a few forbidden adjective eggs. ]
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Look, I understand why you have to tell them what I'm actually like, on account of them wanting to murder me, but do you really have to use the K-word?
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His murderlust seems to die down once Aziraphale starts opening his mouth, and blabbering, in a way that feels way too goofy for Guts to take seriously. Is this really happening? A demon with a friend? ]
You've got to be kidding me.
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You're fucking joking, right?
[Dean weighs his options. He doesn't really see how he could, in good conscience, let this snake go. One positive review from one limey aristocrat isn't good enough to make him stop.]
Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine...
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Old man in white is calm if peeved, demon (?) on the ground is still bleeding but talking without actively coughing up blood, Guts is bemused. Which leaves…
Tim skids to a neat halt in front of Dean, who is the only person still reading as aggressive, or in front of the yellow-eyed man, depending on one’s perspective, and doesn’t wait for anyone’s blessing or greeting before he takes a jab at Dean’s sternum with the end of his bo. ]
Shut up! He has as much right to the camp as anyone - less than half of us are baseline humans!
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What the hell, man? He's a fucking demon. Do even know what those things do?
[Dad never directly said that he suspected a demon killed Mom, but Dean can read between the lines. He's seen enough of Dad's research to draw his own conclusions.]
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[ sorry Crowley ]
Didn’t even put up a fight.
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And, yes, he does know what a few demons can do on a firsthand level. More from second- and thirdhand sources, and none of which he wants to bring up right now when one camper is apparently trying to banish another. ]
He didn’t put up a fight.
[ Tim nods in agreement as he echoes this. ]
Whatever the other ones did, this person’s just bleeding on his suit.
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[He grits his teeth and struggles to finally sit up, his expression fierce. He leans his head to the left and cracks his neck, clearly mentally gearing up for a fight.]
[He takes advantage of what Tim's doing to silence Dean, to talk.]
I don't like killing, you know. Especially humans. I like humans. Used to love making clever little things for you, like the stars, all the way back before the turning of the world.
I've only ever killed other demons.
[He amends that.]
..Well. Barring the occasional deeply unpleasant, murdering, absolute monster of a human, but nobody missed, for instance, Jack the Ripper after I banished him to the moon.
[It's true. He's been able to finesse his way out of most conflicts with humans, just snap his fingers and escape.]
I could've killed you. Didn't.
I held back too long because I hoped you'd use the brains She [He points upward] gave you and realize I wasn't going to cause any trouble. Meanwhile, I can do this:
[He snaps his fingers, and sweeps his arm in a broad sweep to the side, where none of them are standing. A fire suddenly blooms there - fierce and quick-burning and hungry. The fire feels wrong, feels more menacing than normal fire. They'll all be able to feel the heat of it, the way it's almost alive, like it wants to bite, has the will to. It's not huge but definitely large enough and hot enough to quickly burn someone alive.]
[It's curved in just enough that it'd be hard for Guts to move around it without getting bit by it, since he seems like he'd be a fast one as well as strong.]
[Just as quickly as he set it alight, he closes his fist in a sudden gesture to snuff it out, not wanting it to burn long enough for them to perceive it as a threat - and not wanting to risk hurting the angel or the boy. It's suddenly there and then just as quickly gone, leaving behind blackened greenery that shouldn't have burned that fast.]
But you've got me backed into a wall now, haven't you? So you need to ask yourselves this: how much do you trust that sword hand and that mouth to beat the speed of a thought?
[He holds up a hand, ready to snap it now. It's not necessary for him to cast the fire but it represents how fast he can make it burn - in a snap. Now that he's apparently ready to fight back, he absolutely can snap it faster than Guts can stab him or Dean can finish another word of Latin.]
[He's tired of being kicked around. How much better can you be as a demon than trying to save humanity and getting kicked right out of hell?]
Maybe it's better to back away and trust that someone who'd nearly die to avoid killing you [he shakes his head] isn't. Your. Enemy.
[It's absolutely a bluff. He doesn't have that much control over the fire so he's sure as heave - hel - someplace not going to risk using it near the angel and the boy that bravely stepped in to help him. (Good lad, he'll need to thank him after this.) He has the power to end this but it's not worth the collateral - or the risk.]
[But they don't know that.]
[It's a standoff, folks. Do you feel lucky?]
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You're lucky this guy's spellcasting is so damn slow. I'd have run you through against that tree if he didn't get in my way.
[ He withdraws his sword though, having seen enough to form his opinion. No longer interested in a fight, he decides to walk forward to call that bluff. If this guy could've done that the whole time, when they really wanted to kill him, then Guts doubts he'd go through with it now when he wants to talk. Plus, he's putting himself bodily between him and Dean, and there's a whole lot of him to act as a nice, sturdy wall. ]
You know what? I have a hard time believing someone as stuffy-looking as him [ thumb gesture at Aziraphale ] would speak up for a guy who was anything like the demons I know.
[ So, against his better instincts, he extends a hand to help him up. ]
You'd better not make your friend a liar.
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[And he knows this is important. The fixing of this. Even if he has trouble trusting in general, even if he worries about interacting long-term with the humans (because they might only be able to see him as an evil other).]
[It seems like a genuine peace offering and that means genuinely demonstrating he has peaceful intentions back.]
I won't. [It's the unvarnished truth. He has no intentions of hurting anyone.] Hell and I had irreconcilable differences for a reason. Very messy divorce. They got custody of the dog.
[He takes Guts' hand and lets him pull him up, although the second after he lets Guts' hand go, he pitches sideways into Aziraphale.]
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He flinches again when the fire goes out. He feels wide-eyed and frozen, unable to move his shaking limbs. In the back of his mind there's a voice yelling at him to get back up and restart the incantation. That's telling him to finish the damn job you useless piece of shit (if that voice sounds suspiciously like John Winchester, no one but Dean has to know). But all he can see is the blackened ground where the fire was before, there's smoke in his nose and stinging his eyes.
Sammy-- where's Sammy?
Dean looks around for one panicked second before remembering exactly where he is and what's happening.]
Fuck. [He mutters under his breath. He shakily gets back onto his feet.]
Fuck! [This one he shouts angrily. Between the people defending the damn thing and whatever fucking breakdown Dean is in the middle of, clearly this isn't happening.]
Fucking fine. Don't come to me when he burns this fucking camp to the ground. [Dean snarls.
He scrambles upright onto unsteady feet and turns to storm off in a furious, anxious huff.]
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It's ultimately more the type of wince he might have if, say, a couple of smite-happy upper management sorts decided to check in while Crowley decided to pantomime things at him from the front window. The that's-not-ideal wince.
"Fussy-looking" doesn't especially faze him. He's heard worse and it's also sort of what he's going for, so put it right down the middle at neutral. While he's catching Crowley and very carefully propping him up, the look he shoots Guts, then over to Tim, is all tentative gratitude.
Could have gone far, far, far better. Certainly could have gone worse.
If he makes a note to self to try to have a talk with That Very Angry Young American Man in the future, well, he can give it a few days. He thinks he might be personally choosing to live within ten feet of Crowley for a bit, anyway.
And speaking of: there it goes. His attention. To the demon zone. ]
Crowley, could you please give it a rest and tell me where you're worst off? [ He can unfortunately only do so much now, as healing goes. Better to prioritize.
Aziraphale is willing to delay further utilization of one of his oldest weapons, "looking pleadingly at Crowley," only in the event that Crowley might prefer to be away from people before specifying more vulnerabilities. ]
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On some level, Tim appreciates the demonstration of power and control, and he’ll just be filing that information away, thanks. But this is absolutely not when it should be done.
He glares at the demon as he reaches to steady Dean if needed. Despite his defense of Crowley, Tim hasn’t really taken up any one person’s side - he’s against attacking each other. ]
No, let him keep going. If I’m going to stick my neck out for someone, I like to know exactly how far they can stick their foot in their mouth first.
this will no longer broadcast on the network, but still is ->action
[He says to Aziraphale:]
Not...not here. [His voice is still croaky and sounds more trembling and vulnerable than usual.] Though I don't know where else we can go. Everyone who happened to tune in just now knows. Might have someone come up and stab me if we're near the others.
[He leans heavily on Aziraphale, struggling to walk. His entire body is completely drained of energy. He's able to stay on his feet and keep moving but only just.]
[To Tim he says:]
Did always love the taste of boot, me.
[He knows he puts his foot in his mouth on occasion.]
Look, lad, I appreciate your help. I do. But I won't just take this again. From him. [He nods in the direction Dean went.] I'll try to be patient with anyone else, give them a fair chance to back down, but he's not exactly willing to be reasoned with, so if he comes after me again when I haven't done anything...
Well, it's self defense. He's been shown I was willing to hold back. And he's been warned now I might not keep doing it if he tries to kill me again.
no subject
[ Glancing at Crowley and Aziraphale. Was it wrong to think they were kind of endearing when they bickered? He still wasn't sure what to think of that. ]
He doesn't have it, even if he is a snake bastard.
[ Guts is remarkably chill when not full of murder rage, so he levels a steady gaze as Dean storms off into the woods. He can't really blame him for reacting that way. He would have done something similar at a different point in his life, or if this situation had gone slightly differently. Assuming the result didn't end up a lot bloodier, of course. ]
Maybe someone should go talk to him.
[ head scratch. ]
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He doesn't pay attention to what anyone's saying as he walks away. He's too busy berating himself for being such an idiot. He doesn't know if he's more mad at himself for trying to kill the... guy... without thinking, or for not finishing the job.
He has this raging inferno in his gut that's been there since he was a kid. One that's been stoked over a lifetime with fear and grief. One that says if he just killed the damn thing, everything would be okay. Dad would finally stay and Sammy would come home.
How's he supposed to walk away from this? The thing he's literally been trained to do since he was four years old? How's he supposed to smother the rising pain and anger that threatens to overwhelm him just from thinking about the whole situation?
Dean doesn't know, but he does know that he needs to get the hell out of here, as quickly as he can, so he stomps off into the forest without looking back.]
no subject
Best of luck to anyone inclined to escalate things for a second round, though. At a certain point the gloves must regrettably be removed. That'll be then, if it comes to it. For now things are back to quiet, and these two remaining humans seem decent enough fellows.
Bit smart-mouthed. That could apply to the majority of people in this camp. It's always had a certain charm.
Aziraphale tracks Dean's retreat while he's still in sight. It's calculating, more than anything. Curious measurement. Sympathy, no doubt, will filter in later. Always finds a way, is the thing.
He would be lying if he said he had the space to make finding it a priority right now. All things considered. ]
I'd volunteer, but I think it's a bit soon for that conversation to go over well.
[ He can't imagine he's jockeying for the title of "most tolerable of the exorcism interruptions" at present. ]
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[ Twist the words around all you want, but semantics don’t change the nature of a thing. Tim is open to discussing the concept of the world being a better place without certain people in it, but privately and for things worse than one attempted murder.
Tim sighs, because he understands that no one wants to hear logic after they’ve just had someone actively try to kill them. He’s used to it, and he can’t say there isn’t sometimes the tiniest part of him that doesn’t delight at hitting someone in the face when they’ve deliberately made the situation difficult and violent. Kind of like how this little get-together went, given the mess that Crowley is. ]
You’re still bleeding.
[ The tone is sympathetic, not obnoxiously obvious, and Tim starts checking to see if he’s got anything actually clean enough to use as a bandage. He settles for tearing off a thin strip of his tunic and offers it to Crowley. ]
Here. Don’t try to put it on anything. It’s black - that doesn’t mean it’s clean. I usually keep a first aid kit handy, but it didn’t make the trip with me. I wish there was something else I could do…
[ Who knows if human methods would even work. There’s at least seven different kinds of non-humans and metahumans, by Tim’s count, which is going to make medical care difficult. One more reason why they can’t go around attacking each other.
As he considers and speaks, Tim starts to faintly glow. He trails off when he reaches about a faint nightlight brightness and streaks his hand from one side to another, then holds it up. ]
Which one of you is this?
[ The glow will get brighter, and up to two people around him will glow faintly and experience a slight heal. If they’re not hurt, they’ll feel refreshed.
Tim, on the other hand, will feel sus of all of them because he doesn’t glow under normal or normal abnormal conditions. ]
no subject
[But a second later he looks grateful for the piece of cloth. He doesn't intend to use it as a bandage presses it against the neck wound to try to help it stop bleeding. This whole bleeding all over is a process he rarely goes through.]
S'not me.
[The glow helps him feel a little better though. Less exhausted. His throat is a little less sore, the neck wound mostly stops bleeding.]
I think it can heal, though.
[He breathes out a sigh at the slight relief.]
Seems to me that's all you. You're the one glowing.
no subject
[ A very dubious look at the whole 'murder vs self-defense' thing. Yeah, sorry Tim, he's actually going to side with the flaming hellspawn with this. If a guy comes for you, trying to kill them in response is part of the risk of doing murder attempts.
He does look surprised as the guy starts to glow, and, well, it appears he didn't get picked for the surprise heal. Nice magic, guy. ]
Handy.
[ Feeling his business here is mostly resolved, Guts turns to make his leave. ]
Moss makes a good dressing. Keeps the wound clean. You can scrape some off by the river.
[ And with that handy tip for Aziraphale, he'll depart to leave them to another side of camp. ]
no subject
Young man, I would hardly set you glowing without permission after you've done us a good turn.
[ Still, any extra healing, however accidental, is a good thing to have right about now. And that is apparently what's at work.
When one starts doing something they shouldn't be able to normally, it probably seems fair to assume someone has done it to them, honestly.
Oop, what, and there goes the large one. Like a moss-knowledgeable phantom.
The sheer amount of names Aziraphale is realizing they don't have in this situation is astounding. Is this how youth culture works these days? That can't be convenient at all. ]
-- thank you!
[ It sounds more like a question than a firm statement. They're all in one camp. He can have a better go at it later. ]
no subject
I… think I should go.
[ Metahumans? Not a problem. Metahumans losing their powers? It happens. Demons? Werewolves? Vampires? Fine.
Tim himself turning into a glow worm? That heals? Tim hurries to back up, and he doesn’t stop taking slow steps backwards as he makes his excuses. ]
I’m glad you’re okay, and that he’s cooled down.
[ He points from Crowley to retreating Guts, and to Aziraphale. ]
And you can get the moss, like he said. I’m going to sort something out.
[ Like why he’s glowing. And if it’s healing or something else, before he gets too close to anyone else. He isn’t safe to be around until he knows what it is. ]
If anything happens, find Superboy. Tell him Tim sent you.
[ At this point, he’s backed up a good twenty feet without stumbling, so he takes off at a job, away from them and out of camp - in a different direction than Dean. ]